Matters
by runaway ballista
Summary: FE9; Sothe isn't concerned about Tormod -- he's only curious, of course, when Tormod isn't acting like his usual self.


I actually wrote this some time ago, but I never got round to posting it to ffnet. Sothe and Tormod, taking place somewhere in the middle of FE9. Enjoy!

**Matters**

Tormod was, to Sothe, synonymous with energy. There was rarely a time when he wasn't grinning like a fool or glaring heatedly, or yelling excitedly about one thing or another – either about the laguz liberation or what an amazing mage he was. The only time when Tormod didn't seem to be babbling with fiery energy was when he slept, although once Sothe had seen him thrash wildly on his bedroll and let out a mumbled yell in the midst of what appeared to be a particularly intense dream.

So to see Tormod looking quite and sullen, sitting quite by himself a good distance away from the rest of the army's camp – the large tiger who seemed to serve as the mage's parent was nowhere in sight – vaguely piqued Sothe's curiosity. Tormod was almost always accompanied by someone else, unless he was off performing his absurdly hazardous spell practice, but there was nothing on fire in the vicinity, so that was right out. Sothe thought for a moment that Tormod might be doing a quieter brand of studying, but as he drew closer, he saw that Tormod was merely staring at his uninteresting lap – no tome or scroll to be seen. He couldn't have been meditating, either, because – well, it was Tormod, and he wasn't fidgeting nearly enough for it to be that.

To say that Sothe was _concerned_ was grossly inaccurate, as far as the little thief was concerned. Despite what Tormod insisted, they were not _friends_ – merely peers, comrades fighting on the same side of the war. Tormod was just…_interesting_ to him, that was all – and this inexplicable change in the boy's behavior made Sothe curious. It was as simple as that.

Sothe drew nearer, quietly, but still the other boy didn't seem to notice. Well, of course not, Sothe reasoned; he was a thief, a scholar of stealth, and Tormod had all the awareness and subtle grace of a deaf and blind pigeon. Yes, he decided, Tormod was a pigeon – haughty, flighty, and incredibly annoying at times.

Tormod still seemed to pay no mind even as Sothe came to stand right beside him. Sothe remained silent for another few moments, studying the redhead sitting against the large, half-rotted tree dejectedly. It was very un-Tormod-like overall, and had Sothe not immediately recognized the scent of sweat, unwashed clothes, and burned hair, he would have suspected an enemy decoy.

"Boo," Sothe said at last, unenthusiastically. Tormod flinched slightly at the sudden intrusion on his personal bubble of silence, but he didn't flail or shout in response like he usually did. He didn't even look up – just grunted in a peculiarly dissatisfied fashion. Sothe remained patient and unflappable, though some small part of his mind seemed affronted that Tormod was clearly not as thrilled as usual to see him. _Usually_, the mage pestered him for what felt like _hours_ for his attention. Now he seemed to be rejecting it as it was offered. It was strange, Sothe thought distantly, how the opposite felt. He watched Tormod quietly as the redhead let himself slump further against the tree, and he felt his supposed interest in Tormod's remarkable new mood beginning to creep along the edge of concern. He brushed that thought and its accompanying feeling away brusquely, letting his hands rest loosely against his pockets.

"Where's Muarim?" he asked, his words quiet and short as usual. Nothing new or changed there. Tormod just grunted again before offering an actual reply.

"I dunno," he muttered. "Off somewhere, doing stuff with some of the Gallian laguz. Talking or something like that." He sounded sulky. Sothe supposed Tormod hadn't been invited.

"I see." Sothe pursed his lips slightly and watched Tormod for a bit longer. The mage did absolutely nothing of interest. Sothe seriously considered walking away – the situation seemed to be exhausted of any interest or entertainment – but all the same, he found himself nearly unable to. Tormod was clearly unhappy, and that _bothered_ him, much to Sothe's own discomfort. He pondered walking away anyway and seeing if the feeling would go away on its own, but after a quiet, huffed sigh from Tormod that rattled Sothe in a distantly unpleasant way, the thief decided that perhaps the better course of action would be to force Tormod to stop being so miserable so he could get on with his day.

"All right," Sothe sighed, his tone almost businesslike, "what's wrong?"

He could almost hear the affronted expression form on Tormod's face, and as Sothe shifted his weight so that he could see just the edge of Tormod's features beyond his brightly colored hair, he saw it change into something resembling resignation. Tormod slumped even further – Sothe momentarily wondered if Tormod even _knew_ how to sit up straight – and huffed again, quietly.

"Nothing's wrong," he said. The misery in his voice was so thick that Sothe was sure he was going to have to wash it from his hands after this conversation.

"You're a terrible liar," Sothe snorted. Tormod just sulked more.

"Shut up," he snapped, just as miserably as before. It sounded more like "go away," except without those exact words, but Sothe would take him at his word – not that he'd be likely to listen either way, because it was _Tormod_, and besides, Tormod never listened to _him_ when he said to go away or shut up.

"Listen," Sothe said, with a touch of impatience, now, "you can sit here and sulk until the sun goes down and go to bed in a sour mood, and then sulk some more when you wake up and make everyone suspicious and get Muarim worried about you, or you can just tell me what's got you now and get it over with and then you can stop looking like someone just dunked your favorite tome in ice water." It was the longest string of words that Sothe had ever spoken to Tormod, and, after a moment's consideration, Sothe decided it was probably the most gracious and friendliest. He saw Tormod's eyebrows rise in mild surprise, and then the expression morph once again into reluctant concession.

"Muarim's been spending a lot of time with the other laguz," he said, still rather sulkily. "Lethe and Mordecai and them. He talks to them a lot." His sentences were abrupt, short, spurted from his mouth even as dimly as they were spoken. Sothe leaned away, resting slightly against the rotted tree.

"Is that all this is? You're just _jealous_ that you're not getting all of his attention?" Tormod might have been a child still, sure, but even _that_ seemed a bit much to Sothe.

"_No_," Tormod said, a bit snappishly, and he pinched at his shirt. "It's just –" He sucked in a breath, hissing it out, before he continued. Sothe waited with what seemed to be abundant patience. "When he talks to them and spends time with them…he looks _happy_. Like he belongs. You know? He told me the other day that he…after finally meeting his own people, he said it's like he finally knows what he is. Who he is." His hand fell away from his shirt, clenching into a loose fist instead. "I don't. When I met other beorc…I don't think I felt anything like that. When he said all that, I realized…I don't really know who I am. Muarim's the closest thing I have to a parent. I don't really know where or who I came from."

"You're Tormod," Sothe said. His voice was quiet, even, uninterested, but his words seemed inspired nonetheless. "Does any of the rest matter?"

"Tormod?" The redhead sounded exaggeratedly bitter. Everything about Tormod was exaggerated, in Sothe's opinion. "I don't even know if that's my real name. Muarim named me that. I don't know who my parents were, or…"

"Does it matter?" Sothe repeated shortly. "A name is a name is a name. You'd still be you if you didn't have that name. Just because you don't know where you came from… It's not about your past. Or even your future. It's about now. That's all there is to it. You're just you – you're loud, you're obnoxious, and you're wasting _both_ of our time with this nonsense." He paused to draw a huffy breath of his own. "None of it matters as much as you seem to think. Don't think so hard, Tormod, or you'll hurt yourself. Let's go back to camp. I'm…sure Muarim will be back later, or something."

Tormod's head tilted upward, and his lips flattened into a long, thin line as he glared, resentfully. Sothe sighed, and held out his hand.

"Come on," he said. "This is just a stupid waste of time."

Tormod _still_ didn't move for a long moment, and Sothe very nearly gave up and walked away – but then he smacked his palm against Sothe's unexpectedly hard and jumped to his feet. His expression was transformed into an almost vicious grin.

"You're a really great friend, Sothe," he said, his voice proud. Sothe cringed visibly.

"Yeah," he said, attempting to shake his hand away from Tormod's, but to no avail, "whatever you say." Tormod insisted on gripping his hand the entire walk back to camp, as a sort of token of their friendship, despite Sothe's thinly veiled protests that he had somewhere to be, something to do – and the worst part was that by the time they got back to Tormod and Muarim's tent, Sothe found himself thinking that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't as bad as all that.


End file.
